Sources tell us their relationship started in her office when he went to see her to cure his woes. Poor guy has been missing his deceased fiancée, the Olympic medalist Aubrey Sheen, and Dr. Milo gave him a little loving between the sheets to make him all better. Evidently, he’s done the same for her.

She first treated him at her office in an intake appointment that involved more than just talking. She then bumped him to special patient status, beginning “therapy” sessions, as they referred to them, after hours. “Looking forward to another ‘therapy’ session with you this evening,’ he told her, to which she replied, “Will you be bringing any battery-operated friends?” The answer? When he plays sex therapist for her, he brings along his products. Well, duh. He IS a sex toy mogul. We just want to know which models you use, Jack. You know, so we can try them in our therapy games too.

Patients of Dr. Milo might want to consider themselves warned. We have it on good authority he gave her the business in her office. Bring hand sanitizer before you bare your soul to the *cough, cough* intimate relationship shrink.

His phone clattered to the carpet of the plane with a dull thud. Her hands shook. Her chest heaved, and shame flooded her veins from head to toe. Her insides were mangled, like a rusty saw digging through her chest, carving up pieces of her organs. Serving them to the press. She could smell the acrid scent of her career going up in flames as her reputation was burned at the stake.

Someone had clearly hacked her private email with Jack, and twisted their inside jokes and their naughty notes into a sordid story, making public what was supposed to be private, and what was so very personal.

She dropped her head to her knees. The flight attendant stopped and asked if she needed a bag. Michelle waved her off as dry heaves wracked her body. Jack rubbed her back, tried to comfort her, to tell her he’d get to the bottom of this. But even if he did, the damage was done.

27

Spin

The messages were too much.

They were overwhelming.

All that buzzing on her phone had been a stockpile of voicemails from clients canceling all day long. Clients calling in shock. Leaving messages like, “How can we trust our sanity and therapy to you when you are playing therapy games with him?”

Colleagues ringing her up. Carla wanting to know what the hell had happened.

The last message was the worst. The newspaper called—the real paper, not the gossip tabloid. The reporter wanted to know if she had a comment on the New York Chapter of the Association of Intimate Relationship Psychologists’ statement that its ethics division was opening an investigation into whether she slept with a patient and took advantage of him.

She hadn’t returned that call yet. That article was slated to run in The New York Press tomorrow.